


Worthy

by DisplacedKey



Series: Diarmute Week 2020 [2]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Gen, Guilt, Pre-Canon, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:47:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisplacedKey/pseuds/DisplacedKey
Summary: David waits to die. He wants to die.He doesn't.
Series: Diarmute Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673284
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	Worthy

David waits to die. In the few moments where he is lucid, he thinks of little else. Death will be a sweet release from the thirst scraping his throat; the hunger clawing in his belly; the sun burning his skin; the ghosts howling inside his skull. He deserves it, just as he deserves the hellfire surely waiting for him, but he craves the brief respite of the in-between time between life and death. The nothingness. The freedom of not _being_ anymore. When he feels himself slip into the black comfort of unconsciousness again, he welcomes it.

He wakes to water trickling over his lips. For a moment, he feels a punch of grief at still being alive, but then his survival instincts kick in and he opens his mouth, greedily sucking down the pure, sweet water. He blinks, trying to focus, and his eyes find a blurred figure framed in sunlight. Small, slim, with curly brown hair and wide brown eyes.

The boy—for he is only a boy, despite the heavy black of his monk’s robes—opens his mouth and speaks a stream of gibberish. Then he smiles at David, and that is the strangest thing of all.

David’s eyes roll back in his head as he passes out, and the boy’s yelp of surprise is the last thing he hears.

David drifts in and out of awareness. There are more monks, proper ones instead of children, who bother him with a seemingly endless stream of broth, water, herbs, and salves. They lay cool cloths on his forehead and hold him down when his fevered nightmares leave him flailing in rage and fear.

When the fever breaks, they ask his name. At least, he thinks that’s what they’re doing. He assumes that the words they say when they point to themselves are names, and that they want his in return. He has nothing to tell them. The man he used to be is dead; all that remains is a walking corpse that cannot bring itself to speak. The monks know what he is. They’ve seen the cross branded across his back, the scars that litter his body. Their eyes are wary even if they treat him as cordially as they would a normal, harmless guest. He wonders how many of them he accidentally hurt while lashing out in his dreams.

The monks insist he stay in bed and rest while his starved, weakened body recovers. Some days he is barely able to muster the energy to eat and all too happy to stay in bed. Other days, ants crawl beneath his skin and make him want to punch the walls. On other days still, he is near-paralyzed with guilt and grief, and silently begs a god he no longer believes in for death.

It is on one of these guilty days that the door opens and the boy pokes his head into the room. When David, who is lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, turns and sees him, the boy perks up and says a phrase David is pretty sure means “You’re awake!”

David sits up as the boy walks in, a basket hanging from the crook of his arm. If David had to guess, he’d put the boy at around thirteen or fourteen years of age. What he’s doing in monk’s robes is a mystery; an orphan, perhaps. Deep within him, David manages a pang of sympathy.

The boy points to himself and says, slowly and clearly, “ _Diarmuid._ ” David nods to show he understands, and the boy, Diarmuid, nods back in satisfaction.

Diarmuid says a great many things David doesn’t understand, though he half-recognizes certain words that probably mean something like “rest” or “heal”. Then he reaches into the basket and pulls out something green and purple-white: a small bouquet of flowers. David stares at them, baffled. Diarmuid takes a few slow steps forward and holds out the bouquet...toward David.

Part of David wants to laugh, or maybe cry; he is no longer the kind of man who deserves any gift, much less flowers. He is a sinner, a monster, unworthy of any and all kindnesses already bestowed upon him by these holy men. He is about to shake his head when one of the other monks enters the room. This one, with a long round face and a salt-and-pepper beard, is named Ciarán.

Ciarán says something sharp to Diarmuid, who protests with the tone of anyone caught breaking a rule. Perhaps he wasn’t supposed to visit David, not on his own, at least. It is smart of the monks; David is an unknown, a threat, and not be trusted.

Diarmuid turns and stumbles, tripping on the hem of his robe. He tilts, falling, and before David can even think, he is up and catching Diarmuid in his arms. The boy’s head knocks against his chest, and for a breath, no one moves.

Diarmuid turns and beams at David, his smile blinding in its intensity and gratitude. Then he turns his head and says something to Ciarán in an unmistakable tone of _I told you so._ Ciarán says something back and Diarmuid nods. He places the bouquet in David’s hands and leaves the room, shooting one last warm smile over his shoulder. David is left standing by the bed, cradling the soft blooms with his calloused hands. Ciarán gestures toward the bed, a thoughtful look in his eyes, and follows Diarmuid out.

David sits, staring down at the small, pointed petals. He is not worthy of such a gift. He is a monster, a murderer, a walking corpse. But he thinks of Diarmuid’s smile—his dimpled cheeks, the way his eyes crinkled, the warm sincerity of it—and he wonders.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like "Diarmuid goes back to save the Mute" and "Diarmuid finds the Mute on the beach" are the two most common types Pilgrimage fics out there, and now I've done both of them. But hey, if it's not broke, don't fix it!  
> ====  
> My second entry for @pilgrimagesource's Diarmute Week. The prompt: Salvation.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at https://iwillcarryit.tumblr.com/


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